


ASiB Warehouse Scene

by A_Study_In_Johnlock



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Blow Jobs, Confessions, Episode: s02e01 A Scandal in Belgravia, Fix-It of Sorts, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-28
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-10-18 09:34:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17578376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Study_In_Johnlock/pseuds/A_Study_In_Johnlock
Summary: He rounded the corner, his mouth moving faster than him before he took in the long, yet wider corridor lined with windows, letting the grey light in. “He’s writing sad music. Doesn’t eat,” he listed as he turned to look up, slightly, casting a glance up to take in all of his surroundings, “barely talks–only to correct the television,” casting a glance over at the left wall, as he continued forward, lined with unrecognisable switches and buttons like some sort of warehouse. “I’d say he was heartbroken, but, uh...well, he’s Sherlock,” his head turns, still looking around, waiting for Mycroft’s figure to be revealed, still talking to fill the space, “He does all that anywa..” just as he turns back, he sees a figure alright; not Mycroft’s, but Irene Adler’s.





	ASiB Warehouse Scene

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, you guys–I’ve rewatched A Scandal in Belgravia almost four times in a row, paying special attention to the fact that Sherlock and Irene are definitely set up as mirrors (but, Irene does say it was all a part of the game, so you can assume she was just trying to get a reaction out of John in the scene where he’s “picked up” after leaving the flat; that’s the scene I’ll be writing from with a little twist of my own as my own theory goes: I’ve watched this scene several times and have observed all of Martin’s acting mannerisms and I could feel the genuine anger upon him seeing Irene (much like he was when he saw Sherlock in TEH and the only thing I could think was mirroring and foreshadowing) and the rise in his anger as she began to ask him what to do, then his explosion–what do you normally say? You’ve texted him a lot.”–he. is. angry. Seemingly a little bitter when she she begins reading them, almost like when he seemed a little pissed when Molly received the apology he never had. Me and my friends always laugh at the christmas scene when the camera slightly settles on John’s face after Sherlock’s asked Molly to forgive him; we call it the bitch, what? face.  
> I don’t know, something in me feels like Johnlock was something they actually intended, but–somewhere along the way–it was assumed to be a great idea to bring Mary in (absolutely no offense to Amanda Abbington) and I don’t think anyone disagreed–but the air of s3 changed and I don’t mean just with Sherlock being brought back from the dead. Somehow, it got deeper and a little bit more urgent–filled with fire, unspoken words, quick glances...it all makes me feel pretty anxious, like something is about to happen, yet there is no outcome.  
> So, with all of that being said (and thank you if you stuck around for my little theory) I’m gonna start writing.

“Couldn’t we have just gone to a cafe?” John inquired, taking in his gated and cement surroundings. “Sherlock doesn’t follow me everywhere.”  _ That,  _ he was a little unsure about, but he’d said it steady enough to make it sound believable. He  _ hoped  _ Sherlock had followed him. “Through there.” she said, pointing with her hand in her phone, looking at John expectantly. A little unsure, John continued forward.

She didn’t follow. He rounded off into a corner with an open doorway, the wall a sunshine yellow room with another doorway leading out to a long corridor lined with lights and switches across, yet rounding off into another area where he felt Mycroft were more likely to be–otherwise, he’e be standing in the middle of the hall.

He rounded the corner, his mouth moving faster than him before he took in the long, yet wider corridor lined with windows, letting the grey light in. “He’s writing sad music. Doesn’t eat,” he listed as he turned to look up, slightly, casting a glance up to take in all of his surroundings, “barely talks–only to correct the television,” casting a glance over at the left wall, as he continued forward, lined with unrecognisable switches and buttons like some sort of warehouse. “I’d say he was heartbroken, but, uh...well, he’s Sherlock,” his head turns, still looking around, waiting for Mycroft’s figure to be revealed, still talking to fill the space, “He does all that anywa..” just as he turns back, he sees a figure alright; not Mycroft’s, but Irene Adler’s. 

She casually walked in, casting a gaze at the light looking as alive and as  _ smug  _ as the day he met her and he felt all of the colour drain from his face, a slight twist in his  _ gut  _ as he realised what she’d done. 

“Hello, Dr. Watson,” she sighed as she came to a stop at least ten feet away from him. She looked at him a little expectantly, waiting for his reaction–almost fascinated to see what he’d do next. He definitely didn’t look pleased.

“Tell him you’re alive.” he said it low, flat, blinking once, as if he were telling her the most obvious truth on Earth.

“He’d come after me,” was her excuse

“I’ll come after you if you don’t,” was John’s threat. She had  _ no right _ , putting Sherlock through what she’d put him through.

“Hm, I believe you.” there was fascinated lilt in her tone which pissed John off.

“You were  _ dead  _ on a slab. It was definitely you.”

“DNA tests are only as good as the records you keep.” she said it as if it were an obviously simple solution.

“Oh, and I bet you know the record-keeper.” God,  _ why  _ was Sherlock fascinated with her? Why did she even bring him here? To brag? 

“I know what he likes.” she said, her mouth quirking up, then she crossed her arms over her chest. “And I needed to disappear.”

“Then, how come I can see you and I don’t even want to?” John asked lowly, his tone dripping with venom. 

She smiled at him for a second and then raised her hands as if she were admitting defeat. “Look, I made a mistake. I sent something to Sherlock for safekeeping and now I need your help to get it back.”

“ _ No.”  _ John hissed, wondering what it was with people like Irene (and at one point, Mycroft) who wanted to offer him money for ‘information’? What the  _ fuck  _ did he look like?

“It’s for his own safety.” she offered,

“So is this,” John met. “Tell him. you’re alive.”

“I can’t,” she insisted.

“ _ Fine,” _ John spat out, his teeth nearly clenching down before he continued talking. “I’ll tell him–and I still won’t help you.” he was only growing angrier the more he took in her smug look like she was reading him, like she was becoming more curious about his anger. Rolling his eyes, jaw clenched, he turned on his heel and began to storm off, until–

“What do I say?” Irene called out–

John doubled back, already exclaiming, as he stomped back towards her, wondering what he fuck gave her the right to ask  _ him  _ for advice on Sherlock. “Well, what do you  _ normally  _ say?! You’ve texted him a  _ lot!”  _ She looked a little shocked by his outburst, holding up her “other” phone as she eyed him. “Just the usual stuff.”

“There is no usual in this case,” John muttered darkly.

She shook off whatever shock she had, smug again, as she turned to read her texts, making John’s gut twist again in ways that made him regret every decision he’d ever made up to that point coming back to London:

 

“Good morning. I like your funny hat.”

_This bitch._ _  
_ John huffed, casting his gaze away, not wanting to hear Sherlock’s reply, but knowing Sherlock _hated_ the hat...maybe he wouldn’t find it so amusing.

“I’m sad tonight, let’s have dinner.”

John’s head snapped back to look at her in shock, his blue eyes widening, wondering if it was Sherlock’s reply.

She continued: “Hmm, you look sexy on  _ Crimewatch,  _ let’s have dinner...I’m not hungry,” she looked back up at John. “Let’s have dinner,” reading the last of their messages.

“You... _ flirted  _ with Sherlock Holmes?” it sounded like an accusation rolling off John’s tongue.

“ _ At  _ him,” she corrected, looking them over again. “He never replies–”

“No, Sherlock always replies to  _ everything– _ he’s Mr. Punchline–he will outlive  _ God  _ trying to have the last word.”

Irene was glancing up at him from her screen, that smirk slowly appearing like the Cheshire Cat. “Does that make me special?”

“I don’t know, maybe,” John said honestly–because it could very well be true. Maybe Sherlock’s weird way of flirting with women? Always trying to get the last word with men (and the occasional Sally) yet never saying things to women like Molly and Irene?

“Are you jealous?” she inquired, looking back at her phone, tongue coming out to wet her lips like she was trying to hold back a smile, or even a laugh.

John frowned: how many times would he have to repeat this? “We’re not a couple–” 

Irene cut him off. “Yes, you are.”

John stopped, shocked, his chin jutting up in disbelief.

“There,” she continued on as if nothing had been said, looking up at John to show her phone. ‘I’m not dead. Let’s have dinner’.”

John looked away, sick at having run her right back into his hands. What if he did reply?  _ God,  _ John didn’t think he could stand to hear that damn text alert. He was  _ not  _ about to be talked down to by a woman who felt like she was, now, in a way, receiving Sherlock’s attention in some reverse psychology way. Fine, he could do reverse psychology _ – _ if it could get him out of here.

“Y’know, who the hell cares about Sherlock Holmes,  _ but,  _ if anyone out there  _ still cares,  _ I’m not actually gay.”

“Well, I, am.” Irene murmured, giving him a thin lipped, knowing smile before her eyes narrowed knowingly and a smug again, “look at us both.”

Just like when she’d cut him off– _ yes, you are _ –John was stuck silent, yet all he could do was scoff and look away. 

She’d won.

 

And then. 

In that moment of shared silence, a moan sounded–that text alert. John’s throat closed, fear striking his heart as his eyes widened.  _ No. Oh, my God,  _ before John knew it, he was already walking towards the sound, walking towards Sherlock, before Irene lifted a gloved hand–much like Sherlock’s–to stop him. 

“I don’t think so, do you?” Irene asked.

No, it was definitely him and he knew it. John had hoped Sherlock would have followed him. And he had and he had undoubtedly heard  _ everything.  _

John felt his world fade to black.

 

When he came back home, sent back in one of Irene’s cars, John walked up to the door only to find a small note held under the knocker that read: CRIME IN PROGRESS  PLEASE DISTURB

John rushed in and up the stairs. “What’s going on?” he inquired as he came into the sitting room, eyes widening at a man–the same man from Irene’s house–taped up and bloodied in a chair.

“Mrs. Hudson’s been attacked. I’m restoring balance to the universe.” Sherlock said from behind him, sitting in the corner in a chair where he had, in his left hand, a gun pointed on the man, his right leg crossed over the left, and his right hand holding his phone up to his ear.

John immediately rushed to Mrs. Hudson, his arm going to wrap around her shoulder, but not wanting to overwhelm her space, checking her face and shaking form., “Oh, Mrs. Hudson, my God, are you alright? Jesus, what have they done to you?” he was staring the man down across from him, horrified.

“Oh, I’m just being so silly,” she cried into her hands, shaking her head, leaning further against John, John, in turn, offering himself as more support.

“Downstairs,” Sherlock said, rising from the chair, gun still trained on the American, standing only a couple feat away. “Take her downstairs and look after her.”

John rose and offered his hand, but Mrs. Hudson insisted she was fine as she rushed past John and out of the room.

John strode over to Sherlock who never looked away like he could and  _ would  _ pull the trigger any second. “Are you gonna tell me what’s going on?” John inquired as Sherlock looked over at him, his expression open and holding nothing back.

“I expect so, now go,” his baritone voice practically growled back, his right hand still holding his phone up to his ear, his jaw clenched.

John  _ hated  _ how hot he thought it looked, but they held each other’s gazes for a few seconds before he decided to let Sherlock go on about his business, both of them turning to glance at the American, John’s mouth almost quirking up in an amused smirk at the possibilities and Sherlock’s icy gaze settling on him. 

 

___________

  
  
  


When Mrs. Hudson had long gone to sleep and the American was out the window, John followed Sherlock upstairs in a tense silence. John was gazing at the button up stretched across the muscles of Sherlock’s back, his sleeves now rolled up. John removed his jacket and Sherlock busied himself with starting a fire, saying absolutely nothing. John busied himself with preparing tea. 

After the fire was going and the tea was poured, sugar and milk added, Sherlock addressed the elephant in the room. “I was there.”

“I know,” John said lowly, taking a sip from the rim of his teacup. “You knew it wasn’t one of Mycroft’s cars.”

“I knew that he was also in a ‘very important meeting’. Impossible to be two places at once last time I checked.”

“Do you have feelings for her?” John inquired. “Because she’s trying to get to you.”

“I  _ know  _ what she’s “trying” to do, but it won’t work. My concern does not lie with Irene Adler, it lies with you.”

John swallowed, adjusting himself a little uncomfortably in his chair. “Why?”

“Look at us both, she said,” Sherlock recalled, his eyes never leaving John’s who never left his. Sherlock’s icy eyes narrowed. “You said nothing, scoffed, even, like she’d gotten the best of you.”

“She had.” John admitted, setting his cup aside. “She was right; I had nothing left to say.”

“And now?” Sherlock inquired, his head tilting a fraction, his fingers steepled just below his pouty bottom lip, fingertips brushing the curve.

“And now…” John sighed, sitting back in his chair looking for the right words. “I have to ask. Is there any interest?”

“My concern. does not lie with Irene Adler. It lies. With you.” Sherlock said very slowly, making John frown in realisation. “You  _ cannot  _ show interest if you never reply, John. I’d rather save myself from the expectations of a tete a tete. She bested me, yes, therefore I respect her as The Woman and it ends there. You, on the other hand, are much more fascinating.” 

“I…” John trailed off, shocked. “Me?”

“You,” Sherlock murmured, pointing with his steepled hands only to place them back. “Counting all of my text alerts. I said it was  _ thrilling _ –both that you were paying attention and because you so obviously assumed I cared about replying back...having  _ feelings  _ for her. As did Mycroft. And Molly who was shocked the I recognised Irene by the first thing she ever presented to me.”

_Oh, I think he knows exactly where to look,_ Irene had said about John’s flustered state. _Not sure about you, though_ , she’d said to Sherlock who’d taken one glance of her form in the doorway and immediately decided he was not interested, yet wanted to know _why_ she’d decided on that form of presentation. She admitted that clothes were a self portrait. And he thought she was very clever in that sense. A meeting of minds, mostly, but, even still, Sherlock felt like she put on too much of a show and he never cared for showy people. _Think. It’s the “new” sexy_ , he could recall the last two words rolling off of his tongue like venom, unimpressed, before rolling his eyes as well. 

“But these are all just observations. I could hear your tone when she’d told me she was flattered by my observations and I meant it when I told her not to be–it just happened to be the only information I could take in when I first saw her,” Sherlock shrugged a shoulder, slightly rolling his eyes. “And all of a sudden, everyone’s head is blown. I’ll have you know,  _ your  _ pupils were dilated.”

John stumbled over his words. “I-Well, I mean–uh...”

“Exactly,” Sherlock nodded once. “You enjoy the female form, John, there’s nothing wrong with that; I merely respect it. It causes me to feel no specific  _ joy _ , if you understand my meaning.”

John was slowly coming around. “No arousal, hence, why she wasn’t sure about you.”

“Quite right,” his lip quirked up. “Merely took me off guard which, as a sort of sadist, she enjoys doing, don’t you agree?”

John could practically see her smug smirk back at the warehouse when she’d asked John if he was jealous. “So, you’re not interested in women.” John stated it as a fact.

“Not at all,” Sherlock sighed, letting his hands fall, lips pressed together. “I told you they weren’t my area.”

“You’re gay.” 

Sherlock actually smiled. “Not  _ not  _ gay,” which made John laugh, but when they faded into silence, Sherlock spoke again. “Was she correct?”

“She’s a lot like you, you know,” John muttered. “Very good at reading people. And she got me at every turn, so, yes. She was very correct in her observations.”

Sherlock visibly took in a shaky breath as he looked John over, suddenly looking very out of place like he didn’t know what to do next. John did.

“Can I have you?” John inquired lowly, his deep blue eyes focusing on Sherlock’s dilating verdigris orbs that widened in surprise.

“I’m sorry?” he inquired like he hadn’t heard him correctly, but John knew perfectly well. 

“And when I say  _ have _ , I’m being indelicate.” 

“ _ Oh _ ,” Sherlock breathed, sort of excited, electric gaze took over. “Where?”

“Here,” John pulled himself to the edge of his seat, placing his hands on Sherlock’s knees whose breathing was growing visibly heavier. His gaze was heated, much unlike the way he looked at the woman. John had a feeling if she were somehow in his place, Sherlock would have that cold, unreadable gaze on, but John could see the vulnerability, the exposure. 

“O...okay,” Sherlock nodded shakily, his curls bouncing. John pulled himself forward onto his knees, ignoring the complaint that came from them, nestled between Sherlock’s legs, his hands pulling at the shirt tails of his button up before undoing them from the bottom up, slowly revealing pale skin until the fabric was being pulled from his shoulders, down his arms, unbuttoned around the cuffs, and slipped off. John mouthed at those pink nipples, groaning at Sherlock’s sharp gasp at having someone’s– _ John’s _ –tongue rolling against the nub while his right hand came up to brush the other with the pad of his thumb,  _ teasing,  _ until the man’s hips were mindlessly rolling for friction against his cock. John believed Sherlock could come like this, tortured, untouched, and he switched to the other nipple, his left hand now pulling the wet, pink bud between his thumb and index finger as Sherlock whimpered at the dual sensations.

“Hmm,” John rasped, letting his lips kiss down Sherlock’s chest, down the line of his stomach to the line of hair following down into this waistband which John deftly undid, gazing back at Sherlock’s unfocused, hazy eyes. He looked absolutely  _ wrecked  _ already and John hadn’t even gotten started. “Are you gonna be good for me, sweetheart?” he inquired, not even knowing where the endearment had come from, or even the low, raspy tone he was now sporting from arousal. Fuck, he  _ wanted.  _

“Y-yes, yes John,” Sherlock gasped out as John palmed his clothed cock through his trousers, John himself groaning with anticipation. He quickly rid the man of the last of his clothing and placed the man’s legs up on the arms of his chair, Sherlock gazing down at John like he was in a dream, like he wasn’t real.

Without looking away, to show Sherlock that this was  _ very  _ real, John licked a slow stripe up the length of Sherlock’s pink, swollen cock before sucking the head into his mouth. 

“Oh,  _ fuck, _ ” Sherlock’s lips wrapped around the word like sin, making John’s cock jump. He suckled, letting the precome pool onto his tongue before sliding down, letting the man’s cock slide further into his mouth, his tongue petting everywhere he could before he began to bob his head vigorously to get a reaction from the man who swiftly shouted and hissed in response, hands flying down to cup John’s head who was now basically fucking his mouth. 

Sherlock could only take it. His legs were pinned on the arms of the chair, open, John taking up the space between them with his larger hands on Sherlock’s milky thighs, gripping, reminding Sherlock he was entirely owned. Heat pooled in his lower belly at the sudden oncoming weight of his orgasm. “J-John, fuck,  _ oh, fuck– _ ” he couldn’t even string a sentence together. While his cock was not very long, he could still feel the head  _ just  _ hitting the back of John’s throat which swallowed around him every other pass, making his thighs tremble and he  _ knew  _ John could feel it under his palms which made it all the more sexier. Sherlock’s fingers threaded through John’s hair and chanced his own thrusts, but was quickly stopped by the man’s  hands before he pulled off, eliciting a keening whine from Sherlock who protested with a near sob, begging John to not stop, to never stop. 

“Shh,” John comforted him, kissing his open thighs, his cock, hands softly curling around his bollocks, touching him softly and lovingly. It did little to stop the tears that were already spilling down Sherlock’s cheeks, his chest rising and falling with hard breaths. John kissed his lips gently, ever so gently, letting their lips brush over each other before pulling back to look at him. “I’m gonna undress. And when I do, I want you to climb down here and onto my lap–can you do that for me, sweetheart?”

Sherlock nodded, lips parted in a daze, watching John’s hands as they undid his shirt, then his trousers, watching as more slightly tanned skin was revealed until John was kneeling, bare, in front of the fire. Sherlock slipped off his chair and onto John’s lap, whose hands came up to rest on the curve of his backside, spreading him, looking him over.

“We’re going to come like this,” John noted, his tone still raspy, still in charge, as he squeezed Sherlock’s backside, rolling Sherlock’s hips into his, their cocks rutting together, making Sherlock moan.

“Okay, okay,” Sherlock breathed, nodding, letting his arms round his shoulders as John controlled the pace, tilting his own hips up to meet Sherlock’s, yet still holding most of the man’s weight, a low growl forming in the back of his throat that was almost animalistic, their cocks frotting together with each pass, John’s thicker and longer cock easily rutting over Sherlock’s who’s entire body had tensed as he took what John gave to him, his head tilted back in a silent scream the faster and harder John went until, unexpectedly, his cock released ropes and ropes of come, his orgasm practically forced out of him as John continued rutting his hips like a desperate man until he came, marking Sherlock’s cock and lower belly, his hips still rolling until they were both entirely too oversensitive, Sherlock’s thighs still trembling as they slumped against each other.

 

“Let’s do that every day,” Sherlock murmured against John’s neck.

He chuckled. “Insatiable already, huh?”

“I knew your cock would be glorious,” he felt Sherlock smile and heard the smugness in his tone, quickly meeting his tone with a swift slap to his ass that had the globe jiggling with force, Sherlock’s head snapping up to his, eyes heated. John gave him a challenging look.

“Did you now?” he inquired with a dark tone, secretly very amused.

Sherlock’s teeth sank into his bottom lip. “Merely an observation.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know if you enjoyed it–if you did, tell me what you liked about it and if you didn't, tell me what you disliked about it!
> 
> Comments make me happy and if you want follow me on tumblr, here it is: http://consulting-writer.tumblr.com/


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